Page 22 of Patrick

“Of course. I promise. I was a girl scout if that counts for anything.” She holds two fingers against her forehead, and I smile because I know, without a doubt, I can trust Pammy Pledge.

“You a hockey fan? I’ll get you tickets to the next home game. Give me your number.”

She nods vigorously. “Oh,” she trills a nervous giggle. “I never dreamed Trick Jennings would be asking for my number.”

I wonder if she’s putting me on, but no, she’s seriously giddy, and I find myself smiling. “Don’t sell yourself short, Pammy.” I look her over out of habit. “I mean, technically, you are on the short side, but height isn’t everything.”

She giggle-snorts. “It’s true what they say. You’re so funny!”

“You’re not so bad yourself. You’re smarter than the average girl and nice. Give me your phone.”

Since her hands are clasped to her chest, strangled into white-knuckled submission, I put my hand out for her phone. Without blinking, she plucks it from her pocket and places it in my palm. I tap my number in while she watches me like I’m a magician.

Prying her fingers apart, I hand her phone back. “Maybe it’s your name, but I trust you, Pammy Pledge.”

She laughs, a real laugh, not that nervous giggle, and it sounds good and authentic.

“You really are funny. Whoever the girl is, tell her for me she’s very lucky.”

“I will.” I don’t bother carrying on with my lame story about buying the book for a friend, and she doesn’t call me on it.

“One final suggestion,” she says. “Memorize one poem and recite it to her.”

“Which one?” I don’t know why I’m asking because I don’t have time.

She tells me, and I nod. “See you at the next game.”

“I can’t wait. Thank you for trusting me, Patrick.”

I think I just made a friend. I walk out the door with the wrapped book of poetry safely tucked deep in my hoodie pocket and trot along the path to the remote end of campus where Fifi lives. The entire way, I run the lines of the poem Pammy recited for me through my head.

My knuckles hit the back door of twenty-two Hamlet Circle only once before it opens, and I’m not ready for her. I thought I would be. Hell, I’ve been fantasizing about this moment for so long; I should be ready. But staring at Fifi now, in the flesh, shakes loose some kind of nerves I never knew I had. Here in private, in our own world, a foreign place where I’ve never been, to be honest, a place where I can be alone with her and…

“Come in.” With an ethereal glow, she stares at me like I’m not real, the same way I must be looking at her.

“This is wild.” It’s the stupidest possible thing I could say, but she nods, her expression somber and her eyes meeting mine with a softness as if she gets what I mean. Maybe she does. Maybe under all her confident planning, she’s getting the same unreal vibes I am.

“Come inside.” She takes my arm like she’s escorting an escapee from prison to the secret hiding place. Flicking a glance around her apartment, I take in the luxury digs as she drags me into her bedroom and shuts the door behind us.

“Are you hiding me like a dirty secret?” I have to snort a laugh because I don’t blame her, but it feels weird. As weird as everything about this rendezvous.

“Maybe. But no worries. I’m pretty sure my roommates are out for the evening.” She inhales a deep breath and, without looking behind her, plops down on her bed, deep into the fluffy pink comforter. “Honestly, I’m glad you’re here, but I’m a little nervous.”

Shit. That confession is a little too real for me and my overprotective ego. Feelings and vulnerability are not something I share. Not even with myself.

Almost in slow motion, as if she’s a skittish kitten, I approach without taking my eyes from hers and sit next to her. Close. “No need to be nervous, Fifi. I’m harmless.”

She laughs. It’s a genuine laugh, but it stirs all kinds of things—nothing like Pammy’s laugh, which was all about being comfortable pals. Fifi’s laugh sends a foreboding shiver of excitement down my spine and straight to my dick, which is now vibrating like a stiff tuning fork pointed directly at the sexy object of my desire. Shit. I clear my throat.

“Sorry—I wasn’t laughing at you. It’s just that⁠—”

“I know. I have a reputation.” I go for a disarming lopsided smile, relying on my one-sided dimple to communicate.

“I’ve heard.”

Shit. “What are they saying?”

“If you mean the gossips, it doesn’t matter because I’m disregarding them as unreliable.”